Walk a Mile in My Shoes
by bambers2
Summary: A day in the life of Sam's shoes. Written long ago for a challenge about an inanimate object belonging to one of the boys. Players - Gengen, Lam, Kwater, Fredo and Devonshire


I wrote this a long time ago for a challenge on inanimate objects belonging to the boys. Just a bit of humor...hopefully it will bring a smile to someone's face as it always makes me grin. Bambers;)

_Walk a Mile in My Shoes_

They say you can never truly know a person until you've walk a mile in their shoes. You will never truly understand them or find out what makes them tick as an individual until you've experience their heartbreaks, their joys, and all those little things that makes them who they are.

We've experience all these things in silence. Know by a simple turn of the step just how he is feeling. Know when the weight of all he has seen and done is dragging him under, but still we move forward, keeping our steps in time with the steady pace of his brother.

We feel the lightness in his gait when his heart is joyous and when happiness moves him to jubilant laughter, although these times are becoming fewer and farther between.

Ours is not an easy job, thankless in many ways, but important nonetheless. We don't put on airs of importance, we know we are easily replaceable. But if we do our job right, we have the ability to carry him swiftly through the night, and we guess that is important if you stop to think about it.

Okay, yeah right, that was lefty speaking, she is a bit of an emotionalist, going for the 'oh, look at us, we're a pair of shoes. Owww . . . look how important our role is in the life of the young hunter'."

Yeah, like he wouldn't drop kick our asses right into the garbage if we ever got irreparably damaged. Okay, so we don't really have asses, but that is so beyond the point.

Me, I'm a little bitter. I mean seriously, he just flips me on and off, and kicks me across the room when he's pissed. Would it kill him just for once to set me down gently after a hard night. And for God's sake, Sam, one word . . . odor eaters. Well that's two, but I'm a shoe, what do you expect.

And is there ever any 'hey, thanks, without you I would've cut my foot wide open on that piece of broken glass after I got drop kicked outta the window by that nasty-assed vengeful spirit'? Nope! It's not hard to say, you know. Just two freakin' simple words. Thank! and You!

I mean, I know I'm not one of your precious _knives_, but my job is every bit as important. Hell, where would you be without me there to carry your butt around. I mean, seriously, stones are a bitch when you're not wearing shoes. I'm right. You know I am . . . just want credit where credit is due, and if that makes me a little shoevinistic, then I guess that's what I am.

The word is chauvinistic, and you're jealous of that knife, righty. Have always been jealous of it.

I am so not jealous of the knife. Owww. . . look at me, I'm a knife. Look how shiny I am in the sunlight. Damn freakin' knife.

Jealous.

Whatever.

His is a hard life. Ours is not to question, but to serve. It is as it has always been. And if we can bring him some comfort as he travels, our job is complete.

Do you even hear yourself when you speak? All that blah, blah, blah. Your tongue all wagging, but nothing useful coming out . . . job is complete, sheesh. My job will be complete when he loses a little freakin' weight. Would've thought all those salads would make him light as a feather. But, noooo . . . gotta mix in all that greasy burger crap.

Damn that Dean for making him eat at all those greasy diners. I don't mean to bitch here, but I gotta tell you my soles are killing me.

You are bitter.

Damn straight I am.

If it makes you feel any better, I think you do an awesome job.

We're so not gonna do one of those shoe-flick moments here, are we?

Shoe-flick moments?

Yeah, where you tell me how much better I am than some damn flip-flop, we cross laces in some sorta weird emotional embrace, and then pretend it never happened.

You've been hanging around with Dean's shoes way too often.

Shoes talk, tongues always wagging, an' from what I hear, he needs odor eaters worse than Sam, so count yourself lucky, lefty.

Seriously?

Yeah, an' get a load of this. Blackhawk told me —

Blackhawk?

Dean's shoe . . . yeah, he's a bit like Dean. You know the whole Rambo, take no prisoners thing he's got goin' on. But anyway, his mate, Ladybird —

Ladybird . . . you're kiddin' me right.

You gonna let me finish here?

Yeah. Go on.

Well, anyway, Ladybird could no longer stand the smell of his feet after a long night of hunting, so she strung herself up and committed shoeacide.

Oh, my, God! Are you serious? Shoeacide. That's just dreadful.

Naw . . . just kidding. She's a freakin' shoe. What part of inanimate object did you not understand . . . Shoeacide . . . really I just kill myself.

You're such a jerk.

Bitch.

You know you really should've been one of Dean's shoes.

Yeah, I am pretty freakin' awesome. Oh, and lefty.

Yeah.

They aren't really named Blackhawk and Ladybird. Just lefty and righty like us. And he's Dean for Christ's sake, his feet don't ever smell bad.

Neither do Sam's.

Yeah, I know. Told you I was bitter.

You really do like being Sam's shoe, don't you?

Yeah, but if you ever tell anyone, I'm gonna have to tie you up, hang you from the rafters and make it look like shoeacide.

Fair enough.


End file.
